Graffiti
by How Now Meow
Summary: It's a month after the Fall, and mysterious messages are appearing all over London. I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES. MORIARTY WAS REAL. Who's the best person to solve this mystery? Sherlock Holmes, of course. If only he actually gave a damn. Oneshot.


_A/N: Hello everyone! This is just a very short, simple oneshot that I had fun writing. Hope you like! If you have time, feel free to check out my other stories. Enjoy._

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_I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES_

"For God's sake, Horace, what's this now?"

"It wasn't me! I found it here."

The two homeless men stood staring at the brick wall of the alleyway.

One of them knelt forward to get a closer look. "This is from a Montana-brand four-hundred-milliliter spray paint can in the 9100 Ancient White shade."

"Bloody hell!" said Horace. "You got what brand he bought from lookin' at it?"

"No, he left the can here," replied the other man, picking it up from the pavement. It looked worn, and felt nearly empty. "The tag has the logo of an art store all the way on the other side of London. Whoever left the graffiti's been leaving it all over the city."

The man who was called Horace looked about fifty, with frizzy gray hair and a long beard he'd tucked into his ugly brown coat. He wore a blue baseball cap that tipped down and covered his eyebrows. In either hand he carried a Tesco bag, filled with his all of his earthly belongs. The other homeless man was much younger, with brown hair. He was wrapped in a dark blue scarf and a black backpack hung from his shoulders.

"Well, it wasn't me," his companion repeated. "I'm _tellin' _you."

"Don't worry, Horace. It's obviously not you. Not with a brand _that _expensive. I trust you."

Horace grinned. "Thanks, Sherlock."

The former consulting detective was now wandering the city as part of his homeless network. He had grown a beard and dyed his hair a lighter shade. He'd lost virtually his entire old wardrobe and just wore whatever let him blend in, though he kept his blue scarf because it was great for hiding his face. He tossed the empty spray paint can into his backpack.

"Whoever he is," said Sherlock, standing back up. "He's wasting his time. Why on earth is he writing this?"

"Oy, it's not just him!" Horace said. "That stuff's all over the bloody city! People are writin' it everywhere!"

As they walked down the alleyway, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Really? That's the first I've seen of it."

"Well, 'course you wouldn't see it if you was so busy huntin' 'em Moriarsy men."

"Moriarty." They made a left turn.

"I seen _hundreds _o' them when I was walkin' in Soho yesterday. It's coverin' the city. People are goin' bats 'bout you since you died."

"But it's been a month."

"That doesn't stop 'em," Horace shrugged. Then he lifted his finger and pointed. "Look there, it's another one."

A few meters away on the wall to their right was a

_MORIARTY WAS REAL_

in bright red paint.

"This is so pointless," muttered Sherlock as they walked past it. "Ridiculous."

"They're showin' their support!"

"If they wanted to show their support they could help me find and eliminate people working for Moriarty."

"But they think you're _dead _."

"It was a joke, Horace," Sherlock said. He hadn't quite gotten down how to tell jokes yet.

"Look here, the point is, people believe in ya now." The two men walked out onto the main road and crossed it. Busy pedestrians passed them without a second glance. "They think you're a hero!"

Sherlock lowered his gaze to the ground. Half of his face disappeared beneath his scarf. "I'm no hero."

"There ya go again, bein' all dark and sad," Horace chuckled. He extended a hand and patted Sherlock's back. "Sure you are! Hey, over there, there's another 'un."

The pair looked up to the top left corner of the side of an office building, where another _I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES _had been sprayed, also in white.

"How did he even _reach _that?"

"Who cares?" Horace exclaimed. "It's there!"

"That's very much like you, Horace, accepting things without explanation," Sherlock dug his hands into the pockets of his coat. "That's not me, though. I don't understand why people are writing these."

They took a right turn into another narrow alleyway. There was an _I BELIEVE IN _scrawled on the brick wall to their left, but whoever began it had probably been spotted by police and had to scamper before finishing. The text was in sunny yellow.

"That spray paint color looks familiar," said Sherlock. "And that handwriting, too. I'd say it was… no. He's sensible enough not to engage in this stupid activity."

"I already told ya, Sherlock," said the older man. "It's everyone showin' their support. You still got fans all over the city."

The former consulting detective ran a hand through his overlong hair. "These fans and their _graffiti _are of no help to me."

The two homeless men walked on in silence for a few minutes. Horace seemed to have given up trying to convince him that the graffiti was a good thing. He sighed a few times, and the pair turned their heads upwards to watch the endless sky above them.

After some time, Horace lifted his wrist and glanced at his broken watch. "Well, got to go meet Paulie up in Doyle Street. We got ourselves a new act where I skate and he sits on me shoulders. It's a hit."

"Try not to lose any teeth this time," Sherlock said.

"I know, I know," Horace waved one of his hands. As they reached an alleyway perpendicular to the one they left, the two parted in the middle. "See ya tonight, Sherlock."

He watched Horace walk off to a new road and disappear as he turned to a new direction. Sherlock was left alone with a couple of garbage bags and concrete walls that stretched upwards into the sky.

Sherlock reached backwards into the unzipped part of his backpack and pulled out the old white spray paint can he'd picked up a few minutes ago. He twisted it side to side, reading all of its labels. He shook it a little: still had a bit of paint inside.

Sherlock looked up towards the wall directly in front of him, narrowing his eyes and licking his lips.

"Just silly graffiti," he scoffed softly to himself, shaking the spray paint can in his hand.

He looked left. Nobody in the alleyway.

Looked right. Just as empty.

Behind him. All alone.

He double-checked all directions just to be sure. Then he lifted the can to the wall and began to spray onto the stained concrete:

_I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES_

He stepped backwards to admire his work. Not bad for a first time. He grinned a little to himself beneath his scarf. That felt quite good, therapeutic even.

He added a punctuation mark and then tossed the now empty spray paint can into a pile of garbage near him.

Sherlock Holmes put his hands in his pockets, spun around, and strolled casually out of the graffiti-filled alleyway.


End file.
